


Two Trapped In A Gaze

by Austennerdita2533



Series: The Fight Is All We Know [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne POV, F/M, First Words, First looks, Longing and Feels, Post Season 7, Reunion at Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 08:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14445033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Austennerdita2533/pseuds/Austennerdita2533
Summary: Crimson billows behind him with the smoothness of a dagger. He’s a mane of color to combat the darkness which drips from his tousled hair and chafed skin as he pins her with a look from across the room.Jaime, Ser Jaime.





	Two Trapped In A Gaze

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't what I wanted it to be (particularly with regards to the dialogue). But it's been sitting on my computer, more or less finished, for over a month-and-a-half now so I decided to post it despite my reservations because sometimes you just need to let a story go, you know?
> 
> Anyway, happy reading!
> 
> xx Ashlee Bree

**_Eyes scream when they swallow fire_**

**____ **

There’s no forewarning when he comes. No horns or trumpets sound. The galloping hooves of his valiant white steed are lost to the bluster outside Winterfell, all but dead on the wind.

The doors of the Great Hall blow open with a bang to reveal a tall knight who passes beneath the archway ensconced in flickering silhouette, his jaw square and taut, stubbled with coarse hair from weeks without a shave. His expression is as fixed in alertness as it is fluid with contemplation, with concentration. 

When he moves, his steps are sure and familiar. Seeking. The snow on his garments drops to pelt the ground with each stride forward, emotion thawing from him like tears, the floor beneath him like a pond filling slowly with relief, and with warmth. 

His gaze is sharp as it sifts through the assembled Northerners, Dothraki, Unsullied, and Wildlings, however, and there’s an unresolved something swimming in his pupils that causes him to halt. To hunt. He tosses a probing look over his shoulder. Left first, then right. Then back over at the door from whence he came: searching again, never not squinting toward what he yearns to find hidden in the torchlight.

Or whom. 

Fierceness and incredulity grow when he shifts past the King of the North and the Dragon Queen at the the head table. Fear lessens when he perceives Tyrion, who sips wine from a tumbler while seated next to Lord Varys - alive, thankfully still alive - and it enables him to breathe a little lighter for a while. Easier. But not easy enough to allow anything except a grimace to slip free from his lips. 

He nods at them all in turn, not bows, then exchanges a few meager words of information, explanation, armament and strategy with an air of protracted deference. He shrugs off the contempt he undoubtedly feels under their scrutiny. All the while readying the dents around his mouth with apathy to shield that which he has not dislodged from his expression yet, but seemingly could, if provoked.  And probably will at some inconvenient moment down the road. 

There’s something more, too, that rests against the straight set of his shoulders and in the hand he clutches hard against his sword hilt. A slight trembling. Or perhaps it’s a heaviness he knows he must carry alone. And does. Much to his detriment. 

_Is it fear?_ Brienne wonders, observing him from around a large wooden beam. _Or surprise? Suspicion? Is it - could it be honor that clings to him here tonight, almost unbidden?_

Diffident, she shrinks back against her chair at this and flushes, more than half-tempted to dissolve into her mutton stew before she allows her thoughts to flow so unrestrainedly toward him again. 

_Foolish, so foolish._

Reproaching herself, she looks down. Rubs her newly sweaty palms against her breeches. Then she scolds herself again for thinking such nonsense by praying to the Gods that his gaze will pass over or away from her soon because that’s how all men are—mocking, cruel, scornful, insulting, indifferent—because that’s how all men regard her. Or have. Or do. 

They don’t.

But this man’s a golden lion with a roar as silent and as deafening as the heart thumping in the base of her throat right now, and so she hears his call. _Brienne Brienne Brienne_. Feels those eyes. _Where are you, wench? Where are you? Look at me._ They blaze hotter than wildfire, his eyes, parting the crowd into a sea of black furskin waves so he can locate her lone sail of sapphire blue standing tall amidst the chaos somewhere. They’d dive then drown for a reel, a rusty hook - for anything at all she could spare to throw out to him. 

_Those eyes, those eyes_. 

Bloody well damn him for them, she thinks.  Damn him.

Green and animated, watchful, inscrutable beyond comprehension, they prey on her defenses. They burn and burrow themselves inside her head until resistance swells painfully, sweltering in blinding whites and blacks behind her hooded eyelids, and she’s forced to raise her fair lashes to blink him all the way in again: a god crippled by sin and integrity, a knight with one good hand raised for life because he’s come to join them on his own. 

He’s arrived ready to fight. To either win or lose this war with loyalty to his sister swinging from the tip of his blade, withering away like bones yet still half-smeared in the blood of what once was but never shall be again because it’s broken him - she has - she did - killing his belief in what they were supposed to be together. Her and him. 

Severed apart now, they are, Brienne surmises by his brooding and tormented demeanor, severed apart irreparably. 

_Ser Jaime, Ser Jaime._

Like a noose around her stomach, his name pulls at her. It scratches deep in places where it should choke, but doesn’t, somehow always worsening in the moments when she’s confronted with his chiseled face and smirking yet serious mien. Like now. Like here in this waiting room ofhell and war about to unleash.

_Jaime, Ser Jaime._

Crimson billows behind him with the smoothness of a dagger. He’s a mane of color to combat the darkness which drips from his tousled hair and chafed skin as he pins her with a look from across the room. Steady, anchored, it’s the kind of look which turns Tormund’s loud grizzly voice into indistinguishable blizzard words and makes Brienne’s neck all ruddy, her outer awareness fading. Receding into nothing. The people, the scraping utensils and squeaking chairs, the cock of Lyanna Mormont’s brow, the howl of winter against the window panes—all of it vanishes around her until Jaime is all she sees.

_Jaime, Ser Jaime._

He nearly twinkles before her - not quite - but almost. A red star fallen. A Lannister flare chasing its honor, chasing its light, all the way North from Westeros. 

His teeth are white and stretched wide (with calm? with solace?) when he slices through everything - everyone - to close the distance between them at last, roaming closer. And closer. And closer yet. 

Unconsciously, Brienne holds her breath. Her fingers dig into the wood beneath her thighs in search of steadiness, of solidity; waiting for the sounds of his footfalls to stop or redirect. 

They don’t.

Instead, his stare never falls from her face. It never falters. 

There’s only that slow, simmering death of intensity when Jaime stops to lean his elbows against her table’s edge and clears his throat, the apple in it bobbing up and down, up and down. It’s like some bodily reaction warning them both to safeguard themselves and _repress, repress_. Or to try. 

And, oh, they do…they do try. Much too hard and well.  But it’s as if a flame catches between them in the space of a breath regardless, leaving only the deep burn of omission plus the longing that screams from Brienne’s eyes...

_ And refuses to die. _

“I should’ve known you’d tuck yourself away in the shadows somewhere,” Jaime says by way of greeting. “However, I’m not at all surprised to find you perched near the Stark girls - or should I pretend to be?” 

“I’m not - not too near,” she answers flatly and frowns. 

“My apologies. I’m afraid propriety eludes me in this subject matter,” his lips twitch a little wistfully, his forehead creasing as he bows, “so please do forgive my impertinence, Lady Brienne.”

“I need not invade their personal space in order to protect them in their own home, ser - where it’s safe. At least for now,” she adds in a mumble, her hand tightening against Oathkeeper’s hilt in reflex as images of the undead flood her memory.

“No,” Jaime’s smile is tired but soft, “no, you’re quite right.” 

She frowns deeper at this for some reason, his sincerity stinging in a pleasant way she’d rather it didn’t.

“Still, honor becomes you. I’m happy to spot you at the ready. I presumed I’d never be afforded the opportunity to witness your fealty in close proximity again, so I’m feeling rather—well…” 

Pausing, he lets this thought dangle before he halts the subject altogether with a sigh and a shake of the head. Then, leaning in toward her with his forearms pressed flat against the table, he lowers his voice to assure some semblance of privacy, “Allow me to be frank with you for a moment,” he says.

Though he poses this more like a request, the pleading earnestness in his expression renders Brienne momentarily startled. Speechless. Tucked away in her little corner, alone, however, and with Podrick out of earshot with Arya, Gendry, and Tormund, there is little risk of them being overheard by anyone so she nods for him to continue.

“I’m almost grateful to be here again,” Jaime half smirks, half scoffs. “That’s a strange thing to admit, is it not?”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes, well. At any rate, I doubt you were expecting to hear such a confession from me.”

She blanches in response, words failing her. Confession? Why does he make it sound so clandestine? Why must his tone be so…(intimate?) low? 

“After all the harm I’ve caused the Starks in the name of—for myself and…” He grips the bridge of his nose, winces at some disturbing memory, “Yes, I’m almost grateful to be back here.”

“I don’t quite—”

“Come, come. Don’t act so surprised by this impromptu confidence.” Jaime chuckles. It’s a hollow and clipped sound. “You know me better than that by now, don’t you? Surely you understand I trust you yet?”

Brienne scowls. Ignores the warmth buoying in her breast at his honesty, his proximity...at his decision to venture North without family banners, or men, or proper clothes to protect him from the elements. Is he come to fight? To make amends? Or has he arrived with the hope that he can accomplish both before it’s truly too late and the world ends?

“Do not jest with me, ser,” she says.

“Indeed, I am not. I would never.”

Her brow arches at him as he places his good hand over his heart, suspicion wreaking havoc inside her head. Doubt, too.

“You cannot possibly mean—” 

“That Winterfell is far pleasanter than I imagined it would be during my abominable trek North? I’m afraid that’s precisely what I mean,” Jaime says in a manner that’s equally as derisive as it is sincere.

“But - but you—”

Pleasant? How is he so cavalier, and why? Is he mad? 

Menacing whispers began rattling through the hall from the moment he first trudged through those doors dressed as half icicle, half warrior; and still they fire at his back wherever he treads, and whenever and with whomever he talks to about anything within these castle walls. The army of the dead marches closer, yes, but the North does not forget who he is - or who he has been - in their midst. 

Like spears, the words they murmur stick and splinter in the air as they clamor forward to strike him down: _Kingslayer. Sister Fucker. Oathbreaker. Child crippler._ They’re hurled with the intent to injure, to reduce him by any means possible. And surely he hears them? Surely he’s not ignorant? It’s impossible for him to remain so. Let alone _be_ so. 

“Pleasanter how?” Brienne asks, still baffled at best.

“I have access to a warm bed tonight, for one. It’s much appreciated after weeks of harsh travel, I assure you. And two, it’s nice to be reminded that some things about you will never change no matter how fucked we are this winter. And fucked we are.”

Flustered, she looks down. Rubs a palm across the back of her neck. “I don’t - I don’t understand you.”

“Yes, yes, I know you don’t,”he smirks while scratching at his chin. “Nor do you seem to understand that you’re much too tall to hide anywhere or behind anything - least of all in some drafty corner. So why must you try?” 

With his golden hand, he gestures disapprovingly at the wooden beams which surround her like a giant wall and growls, “Gods. Don’t you see it’s pointless for you to loiter out of sight?”

Despite the heat rushing to her face, Brienne purses her lips together and looks at him askance.

“None of us can afford to hide this winter, ser. Not you,” she raises her chin and feels her fists clench in her lap, “not me, either.”

“True. But we cannot truly hide from anything in this world, can we? Not for long. Not forever.” 

“I…” She swallows, uncomfortable at his resigned yet soft tone, her mouth suddenly drier than sand, “I suppose not.”

“And we shan’t do it, Brienne. We shan’t. We won’t obscure things from each other here, do you understand?”

His voice unwavering and hard, Jaime’s eyes spark with gravity as he raises them to her face. His pupils dilate full of some conflicting emotion that screams out for her to understand, then shrink back into obscure green flames before she can because whatever he feels is not supposed to be there. It’s not supposed to be seen. It’s an emotion too intricate, too bloody convoluted, to deserve a word let alone an acknowledgment. 

“No lies or deceptions, either. Not while there’s still breath left in our lungs and strength enough to wield our sword arms in battle,” he adds firmly. 

With one last penetrating look, Jaime burns through her in places no other man has, in ways no other man can, and it hurts to look at him.  _It hurts, it hurts_. But it hurts worse to look away. It’s worse knowing each second lost may become one more they may never reclaim since it marches toward them from everywhere: Death.

Death comes.

Death waits. 

A hollow doom, it lingers like an eerie ballad on the wind. The sky cracks then blackens in warning, whistling. Lulling them forward in bloodied and brawling, staggering but crunching footsteps until they each inevitably find themselves fallen into a white unmarked grave: cold and broken, untouched and un-missed. Alone.

“You’ll have nothing but truth from me, ser,” Brienne says at last.

“Good. I cannot stomach omission any longer. And if this war is meant to be our end, I won’t. You have my word on that,” Jaime says with conviction before he bows and pivots away.

Dazed, perplexed, Brienne peers after his swinging red cloak as he moves toward the hallway, tension coiling - blazing between them. A gulf of unbreachable feeling. 

Without stopping, he raises his golden hand in the air almost in salute as he turns the corner, his voice an echoing vow against the stones, “My word, wench. My word.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again, not particularly what I hoped it would be, but I tried. Thoughts? Insight? Suggestions? 
> 
> Comments are lovely. xx


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